On Skiddaw and Derwent-Water
Skiddaw! upon thy cliffs the sun shines bright;
Yet only for a moment; then gives place 
Unto a playful cloud, which on thy brow
Sports wantonly, soon melting into air;
But shadowing first thy side of broken green,
And making more intense the sun's return.
Then, in the morning, on thy head, those clouds
Rest, as upon a couch, and give fair scope 
To fancy's play: and airy fortresses,
Towers, banners, spears, and battlements appear,
Chasing each other off; and in their turn
Are vanquished too, dissolving like the mould
That's trampled by the foot of urchin boy;
And, rolling down, though once so firmly bound
By roots tenacious, while the upward spoiler
Climbs on to invade the hidden eagle's nest.
Skiddaw! majestic, giant-nature's work,
Though less than Andes, or the Alpine heights,
Yet pyramids to thee are nothing, they at best 
Are but gigantic tombs,--the work of art.
Proud nature makes no tombs, save where the snow
The fleecy locks of winter fall around,
A mausoleum for the careless swain;
Or where the ocean swallows navies down,
Or yawning earthquake covers cities vast,
Shroudless, engulfed, without a knell or tear;
Or where another Herculaneum falls;
Or the great day of fire the general grave.
These are the tombs she makes, and buries all
Beneath them, but the soul; that, . . . scorns the dust.
Now Derwent-water come, a looking glass
Wherein reflected are the mountains heights;
For thou'rt a mirror framed in rocks and woods.
Upon thee, seeming mounts arise, and trees,
And seeming rivulets, that charm the eye;
All on thee painted by a master hand,
Which not a critic can well criticise.
But to disturb thee oft bluff Eolus
Descends upon thy heath-top with his breath;
Thy polished surface is a boy at play,
Who labours at the snow to make a man,
And when he's made, he strikes it into ruin.
So when thou'st made a picture, thou dost play
At tearing it to pieces. Trees do first
Tremble as if a monstrous heart of oak
Were but an aspen leaf, and then, as if
It were a cobweb in the tempest.
Thus like Penelope thou weav'st a web,
And then thou dost undo it; thou'rt like her 
Because thou'rt fair and full of labour too.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE LAKES IN CUMBERLAND.
Derwentwater.
Sweet Derwent! on thy winding shore,
Besides thy mountain forests hoar,
There would I love to wander still;
And drink from out the rippling rill,
Which from thy rocky head doth fall,
And mingles with the eagle's call;
While from Helvellyn thunders break,
Re-echoed from Old Derwent's lake.
And where the lightning's flaming dart,
Plays o'er the Poet's eye, and warms his heart:
Though such thy glories Earth, thy proudest whole,
Can never satiate the grasping soul!

(3)
[published version (1903)]